


There wasn't supposed to be a "next"

by LadyEm



Series: The Spaces Between [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Episode Related, F/M, Fluff, Minor Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark, Morning After, Past Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, he potters, jaime is such a romantic, jaime loves to touch things, mid episode 8x04, no really, past twincest, what is the plumbing like in Winterfell I wonder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-03-20 07:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18988021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyEm/pseuds/LadyEm
Summary: The morning after Jaime and Brienne's first night together. Jaime isn't quite sure what to do.





	1. In which Jaime would really rather NOT kiss Podrick, but is sorely tempted, and we explore the plumbing infrastructure at Winterfell

# Chapter 1: In which Jaime would really rather NOT kiss Podrick, but is sorely tempted, and we explore the plumbing infrastructure at Winterfell

\-- Jaime --

When they finally disentangle, it is time to face the day. The kettle of water beside the fire is hot, but not too hot, and they wash quickly before dressing (how he missed hot water when he was sleeping rough), helping one another in ways that are so familiar even as they are new. Brienne loops the tie on his shirt and he pats her armour down and smooths her hair before tucking it behind her ear, as she buckles her sword belt. 

She is flustered when he pulls her in for a quick, hard kiss, but there is no way he is going to let her leave without that at least. And then she places another log on the fire and is gone, off to Sansa – Lady Sansa, he supposes he should call her – and he is alone and aimless.

He potters around her chamber, straightening her things. He positions her comb on the dressing table, folds her warm cloak and hangs it over the back of a chair. He straightens the chairs, pushing them in underneath the table, then tidies the sleeping furs, which they have left in disarray. In the remaining water, he washes out her shirt and linens from the day before, hanging them before the fire. He will wash his own later, once he has found a replacement. Opening the door – a little cautiously, he’s not sure how the castle’s denizens will respond to their Knight-on-Knight-night (he smirks, thinking he must run that one past Brienne later) – he quickly finds a drain that he uses to empty the chamberpot, then rinses it with their leftover washing water before returning it to her room and taking the kettle and bucket in search of clean water.

Returning, he pauses for a moment. What is the etiquette of just walking into a lover’s chambers when she is not there? He knows – from overlong experience – that when your lover is your sister and you’re a sworn guard to her husband the king, nobody will stop you going into her chamber, however much they may gossip about it later. But that was then and this is not Cersei but something new, and Brienne might not see his actions in the same helpful light as he. But nor will she take the time to care for herself beyond what is perfunctory, so he takes in the water and places the kettle near enough to the fire that it will not boil off during the day but will still not be quite as cold as the rest of this bitter castle when she finally returns. And then he takes her wood basket and fills it not once but twice and _of course_ it’s on that second trip that he runs into Tyrion right outside her door.

“Couldn’t they find you anything to do but be a housemaid?” his brother asks, raising an eyebrow at the basket of wood Jaime has in his left hand, as well as the log in the crook of his right arm.

And – Gods be damned – he has no snappy comeback for his little brother because no, there appears to be nothing for him to do, and he’s not sure what that means because he is _not_ staying in Winterfell if Brienne rides south, but equally he cannot take action to hurt Cersei or the baby she carries ( _his_ baby). So instead of a smart comeback, he shrugs, and somehow Tyrion _knows_ what that shrug means and he frowns and looks at Jaime again and there is something thoughtful and sympathy-like in his eyes and suddenly Jaime can’t bear it so he smirks and glances meaningfully at Brienne’s door. 

Even as he does it he knows that he is being an arse but somehow he just can’t help it, and Tyrion makes his “surprised” face that is actually anything but, and they nod awkwardly and smile. Tyrion trots off to do whatever it is that Tyrion does all day, and Jaime takes firewood into his lover’s chamber and stacks it very neatly. He wonders what he is supposed to do next – when the people who are running this conflict seem to rank him somewhere between one of the undead creatures they had burned the day before and the pox, and there wasn’t supposed to be a _next_ anyway, and somehow being _charming_ – which he is very very good at – is next to useless in the benighted North, and maybe hiding in Brienne’s room is not his most _knightly_ decision ever but it does put off any other choices.

And then Brienne’s door opens and it’s Podrick, with another basket of wood and bucket of water, and it occurs to Jaime that with all of his watering and wood-fetching he has somehow reinvented himself as her _squire_ but he nevertheless takes the wood from Podrick as though he was expecting it and adds it to his pile. 

“Are you busy, Ser Jaime?” the lad asks, as though the answer isn’t obvious, but somehow they both manage to pretend that Jaime has just dropped by on important knightly business and actually he is quite occupied right now, before Podrick continues, “we could use your help in the training yard, if you could spare the time.”

Jaime could _kiss_ him, because a fight sounds perfect right now, even if it’s with a bunch of half-trained Northern peasants. He adds another log to the fire – he too can be conscientious – and leaves the room with purpose.


	2. CHAPTER 2 – In Which Lady Sansa Drinks and Knows Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the day after their first night together. Brienne is occupied with Not Thinking About Jaime.
> 
> I upped the rating a bit, too Mature.

\--Brienne--

In the aftermath of the battle, there is a great deal to be done at Winterfell. The bodies of the dead – and of the _un_ dead – had been burned, but the occasional one still turns up in an unexplored corner. As the chatelaine of Winterfell, Lady Sansa takes responsibility for having the bodies moved and added to a pyre, but the logistics often fall to Brienne. Sansa is kept busy managing their supplies and feeding such armies as survived the great battle – including a seemingly ever-growing number of Unsullied and Dothraki. Brienne sets groups of survivors to collecting weapons – particularly the many Dragonglass swords and daggers which were so critical in repelling the Night King’s army. They will be stored at Winterfell – and perhaps at Castle Black, if it survived the incursion – as protection against some future rebirth of the winter armies.

She takes stock of the Northern forces. More than half of their army was wiped out and then turned on the survivors, leaving many of them wounded. If the Lannister army – no, if Queen Cersei’s army were to attack now, they would struggle to repel them. The people of the North are exhausted, and even the decisive victory against the Army of the Dead cannot inspire them for long. A month – even two weeks – would do much to restore health and spirits of the Northern fighters. She says as much to Lady Sansa when they confer briefly in Sansa’s chambers, sharing a small flagon of wine and a plate of bread and cheeses. Sansa would have her stay in Winterfell, rather than marching South. She can’t be sorry for this, and welcomes the opportunity to contribute to rebuilding rather than to further destruction. 

“And what of Jaime Lannister?” Sansa asks her, sipping from her goblet – and she blushes, feeling again the mild discomfort of the abrasions his beard left on her thighs, and the ache in muscles not used to such activity. Brienne opens her mouth to respond, but Sansa is first.

“We cannot send him South,” her Lady declares. “He fought bravely in the battle against the Night King, or so I am told” – Brienne nods once, decisively – “but we cannot risk his return to his sister. He knows too much.”

Brienne frowns. Surely Sansa is not suggesting –

“Would you have him here?” she continues, not understanding – or maybe not seeing – the look of shock on Brienne’s face. “It is difficult to think of the Kingslayer as a potential ally, but I have seen change in him these past days. And we need all the able-bodied men we can find.”

Brienne chokes. “Lady Sansa, I would be happy to have Ser Jaime stay in Winterfell, but –”

Sansa nods, cutting her off. “Then that is settled.” She smiles suddenly. “And I understand from Lord Tyrion that congratulations are in order” – Brienne pales in horror. Surely Tyrion’s little game hasn’t made it back to San- “ _Ser_ Brienne.”

Brienne smiles proudly, one hand on the hilt of Oathkeeper, thanking Lady Sansa. She and Jaime were already connected by their shared history, would always be connected by their twin swords, but since he had knighted her that connection had changed and deepened through their shared membership of a community of knights – they had become equals. And now – last night – that connection had grown and deepened and become even more than she had imagined. 

“Perhaps you would extend my invitation to Ser Jaime?” Lady Sansa asks, dismissing Brienne as she turns away to deal with an urgent question from her Maester. It is clear that it is an invitation, but it is also clear that Jaime will have no choice but to accept it, and if he doesn’t, the invitation might become something altogether less _optional_. 

“Please don’t let him be pig-headed about this, just this once,” Brienne whispers to herself as she goes in search of him.

She finds him in the training yard, working with a bunch of young boys aged, she guesses, between 12 and 16. They would have fought in the battle as well, would have lost friends and family members, and she admires the gentle way Jaime has as he sets them to sparring, stepping in occasionally to correct a grip or a stance. Lord Bran sits in his wheelchair in one corner of the courtyard. There is no sign of an attendant, but the young lord looks no more out of place than he does anywhere. And if her eyes stray occasionally from Jaime’s arms training to his arse, and if she feels arousal swelling her breasts so that they gently abrade against the linen tunic she wears inside her armour, and if his hair flops forward in just that way and she wonders whether ( _hopes_ ) he might grow it a little longer again, she tells herself firmly that one night should not lead to expectations. Besides, they were drunk, and there was a stupid game, and knights don’t fuck other knights – or even make love to other knights – and just then he looks up and his whole face lights up at the sight of her and she beams at him in return. 

They are pulled from their reverie when one of the boys falls in front of him – without thinking, he uses his right arm to pull the lad up. She hurries down the steps towards Ser Jaime, who has set the lads back to their wooden sword play. He comes toward her, stands a little too close, crowding her with his body as he always has done – but this time her irritation with his physicality has mellowed and she longs to lean into him rather than to push him away. 

“Ser Jaime,” she begins, somewhat self-consciously, and he quirks a little half-smile at her formality before responding with a nod and, “Ser Brienne.”

And what she wants to say is, “my body feels empty without you inside me, my skin aches for your touch, hold me close and never let me leave.” And what he wants to say is much the same only perhaps more intimate, she can tell from his wide pupils and the way he moistens his lips as he looks at her. And right now she doesn’t care whether he calls it fucking or making love or fighting a thrice-damned bear, she is so consumed with joy that he and she have finally shared something so beautiful and honest and true. She seems him lean towards her as though drawn to her – she does the same, and then the crash of a wooden sword reminds them of where they are and if they don’t quite spring apart like horrified maidens (she supposes she will never be that again – she won’t miss it) then they are at least at once all formality.

“Lady Sansa has asked me to convey to you –“ she pauses and he frowns gently.

“Lady Sansa,” he interrupts, “would be happy never to see me again and would like me to depart forthwith, preferably yesterday” – but she shakes her head.

“Lady Sansa would request that you stay at Winterfell,” she continues. “She would value your assistance in rebuilding.”  
He looks at her in amazement, brows quirking together. “Was this your doing?” She doesn’t think he’s accusing, but absolves herself anyway.  
“No, it was San – Lady Sansa’s idea. With so many men heading South,” she swallows, “we need more able-bodied men in Winterfell.” She represses thoughts of just how _able_ his body is.  
“And you, Ser Brienne, where will you be? I pledged to fight with _you_ , not with the Northerners or the Wildlings or the Dragon Queen’s army.”

She blushes, looking anywhere but at him. “Lady Sansa has asked me to stay in Winterfell to protect her.”  
The heat of his smile would melt rocks. “Then please tell Lady Sansa, _Ser Brienne_ , that this not-quite able-bodied man would be honoured to remain her to assist her - _and you_.”

She nods, and moves away, hurrying to reach the war council’s meeting. When she arrives, Lady Sansa and Lord Bran are already there, and the rest of the council – Jon Snow and his advisors, Daenerys Targaryen and hers, Lady Arya – file in. Brienne has never sought out female friendships – there was never much to discuss, and too often her attempts were laughed at – but she recognizes that she is at ease with Ladies Sansa and Arya in a way that she feels she might never be in front of the Dragon Queen.

She doesn’t pay great attention the plans themselves – they won’t affect her at Winterfell – but has to repress a smile when Lady Sansa announces that Jaime will remain with them. Lord Tyrion gives her a pointed look but she doesn’t think anyone else will have noticed. Lady Sansa, of course, suggests with her tone if not in words that Jaime will be a hostage of sorts, but Brienne remembers her almost-kindness toward him at their earlier meeting. And if her obvious friendship with Lord Tyrion is anything to go by, she might not be as dedicated to her loathing of Lannisters as she might believe.

By the time the council meeting ends, it is time for the evening meal. Brienne hurries back toward her room – she will have to fetch water, but there is time for a quick wash before they dine. Hurrying around a corner, she almost runs into Jaime, heading towards the room where he has been quartered (with Podrick, she believes), carrying a bundle of wet clothing.

“Ser Brienne,” he grins, and does anything put this man out of countenance?  
She nods. “Ser Jaime,” she says, suddenly uncertain, looking anywhere but at his face. Her glance lands on the wet clothing.  
He shrugs, tucking the bundle underneath his right arm. “I thought it was a good time to bathe – and couldn’t remember the last time I washed my clothing, so I took it in with me. It’s not much, but it shouldn’t stink any more.”  
There are laundresses for that, she thinks to tell him, looking up.

His eyes are on her, and she can sense the tension in him – the Lannister motto has never fit so well. He is like a caged lion, all power and restraint and want. She swallows.  
“Well, I was just going to –” what was she going to do, again?  
He nods awkwardly. “Yes, I should –” and gestures wildly in the direction he had been heading, only he does it with his right hand and then they both grab for the bundle of clothing that slips to the floor and then they are touching one another, looking at one another.  
“Jaime,” she whispers – and then he is crowding into her, pushing her body back against the wall, and kissing her quite thoroughly.

She has been so _busy_ all day wondering what they were to one another now and how their next meeting would be. And now she has her answer. It is beautiful, and romantic, and inevitable, and damp. And there is poorly-washed laundry and she needs a bath and none of that matters because there is only Brienne and Jaime. 

Taking his good hand in hers, she leads him to her chamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments! I hope that you enjoy this glimpse into life at Winterfell. Please do leave comments to say what you are enjoying (or not).


	3. Chapter 3 – In Which there is spear fishing, brotherly love, and doodled love hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our fluff comes to an end with Jaime finding a place for himself, and a little more nightly philosophy.

\-- Jaime --

His days are fuller now, although the mornings are his own. He walks a lot, both inspecting the progress on rebuilding the castle and keeping an eye on the comings and goings. Particularly the goings – he’s spotted a few people trying to appropriate building materials intended for the castle. Often, he spends some time training with Podrick – and Brienne too, if she’s free. He’ll never be the swordsman he was, but he’s still the second – or maybe third, if Pod is having a good day – best that they have, and he has the experience of command that the other two lack. After lunch, he trains the younger boys for an hour or two before setting them to other tasks around the castle. Then he works with the builders, ostensibly as an assistant but since the first couple of days he’s been more of an overseer, helping them to decide the day’s priorities for the repair effort. He thinks this is Sansa’s doing – they don’t speak much, but he’s been moved to the high table when they dine in the hall, and she calls him Ser Jaime and looks him in the eye when they have to speak. He made her smile over supper last evening, with a story about a time he took seven-year-old Tyrion spear fishing off Casterly Rock that had Brienne, Pod and even Lord Royce in stitches. Tyrion had had him in stitches too, although somewhat more literally – he still has the scar on his foot.

Tyrion left with the Dragon Queen’s retinue, three days after they burned the dead of the Battle of Winterfell. Jaime is surprised by how deeply he misses his brother. They’ve not spent a great deal of time together in the past years, but he thinks he has never felt closer to his brother than here in Winterfell. He thinks Tyrion must have sought him out or at least created opportunities to run into him, as they often met in the corridor outside Brienne’s chamber, closer to the Stark family’s quarters than to the rooms allocated for Daenerys’s entourage. It was Tyrion’s heavy-handed joking – albeit in the poorest of taste – that gave Jaime the impetus to seek out Brienne in her chambers that night. And it was Tyrion who joined him for a drink the night before he left for the South, who congratulated him – sincerely – on “finally seeing that lady knight who has been right in front of you all this time”, and who left him with a tight hug and a stern admonishment to “not cock this up”. Jaime had shrugged and muttered something about being the stupidest Lannister after all, and Tyrion had frowned and leant forward, taking Jaime’s chin in his hand and forcing him to look at him.  
“You really believe that?” he’d asked, and Jaime had shrugged and looked anywhere but at his brother.  
“You might as well say that you are the worst right-handed swordsman in Winterfell, or the slowest to embroider a handkerchief. Jaime, you are still an exceptional commander, your understanding of strategy and command is second to none. I was never able to learn to fight, so I had to become good at book-learning. And as for Cersei, she has cunning but her real skills lie in manipulating people – particularly you. We each have different skills, but none of us is a fool. And I would trust your advice ahead of almost anyone else.” He grinned at his brother. “Besides, do you remember our Uncle Kevan’s family? Lancel and his brothers? Trust me, brother, you have _never_ been the stupidest Lannister.”

The following morning, Tyrion had hugged Brienne farewell, which had left her adorably flustered and had caused Jaime to hurry her away as soon as the Queen’s retinue had left so that he could demonstrate somewhat less brotherly hugging behaviours in the privacy of her chamber.

After six nights together – 147 hours, if Jaime has counted it correctly – they have started to form routines. His sleep is light but untroubled, and he wakes early, stokes the fire, then returns to lie beside her and think. He’s careful not to wake her – Brienne says he can think more loudly than anyone she has ever met. She sleeps deeply but wakes, fully alert, at sunrise. If he’s lucky, Jaime can persuade her to stay with him awhile, but there are days when she hurries to meetings. He makes it his mission to accommodate her schedule, making sure to cross her path with a hunk of bread and some meat or cheese to break her fast, keeping a store of hard biscuits and some fruit in her room. _Their_ room, really – he moved his things to her room after Tyrion left. Podrick doesn’t mind having a room to himself, although from what Jaime hears he is rarely alone in there now. Oathkeeper and Widow’s Wail lie side by side on a chest, their armour beside them.

As on that first morning, Jaime has taken on the task of keeping their room – “fiddling with my things,” his lady calls it. Between him and Pod, there is always a good supply of water and of firewood. The laundresses come every couple of days to collect Brienne’s linen – and his too now – although he notices that she prefers to rinse her smallclothes before they take them. When he asks, she blushes, and mumbles that they smell differently now, and he has to prevent himself from bending to sniff himself on her where they stand in the training yard. He sees Bran Stark – who seems to be everywhere and nowhere – watching them and blushes himself, hoping that the young man was not privy to their conversation. 

And young is the right descriptor. He’s unaccustomed to thinking of himself as old but he supposes that is what he is now. He’s five years older than Brienne or Tyrion, and a good twenty years older than Sansa or even the Dragon Queen – and to be frank, he finds that he cares much less for this Game of Thrones than he had when he was younger. Perhaps it is the cold winds of the North, but he is beginning to dream of retiring to Casterly Rock – or maybe a certain island with a dearth of actual sapphires – to raise livestock, crops and tall blonde children.

Carefully, Jaime slips his arm out from beneath his sleeping lady to begin his morning habits – a quick piss, stoke the fire, place the water closer to the fire to warm it. He sets a chair in front of it with clean shirts, socks and linens for them both, to warm them before they will dress, before he sits himself at the edge of the bed and sort of rolls back towards her – he’s found that this is less likely to wake her, but it doesn’t work today and she blinks sleepily at him in the firelight. 

“Shhhh, go back to sleep,” he murmurs, kissing the tip of her nose and then the top of her head as he draws her close, stroking her head gently and thinking that he would be happy to do this for the rest of his _life_ if she would only let him. He drowses, thinking about the tall blonde children they will raise – Duncan, Arthur and Tyrion, Sansa and Alys and little Myrcella if Brienne will allow - dreaming of nursery stories, training regimes (they will all learn to fight with _both_ hands), camping trips and yes, even spear fishing. It’s time for them to pass their swords to a new generation, once they have made the world safe for them. 

He frowns, trying not to think about what making the world safe means. He hasn’t loved Cersei since Tommen’s death and probably before – not in that way – and he sees now that he has loved Brienne since Harrenhall if not since their first meeting. But she is still his sister and – to his shame – carrying his child. There’s irony there, that a woman he loathes carries that part of him inside her while he dreams of making a family with the woman he holds to his heart. And now he is waiting in Winterfell, trying to ignore that a massive army has travelled south to kill his sister and take her crown. He knows that he will have to come to terms with this somehow, that he and Brienne will need to talk about it, but today is not the time.

She stirs again as light dawns outside, stretching up to kiss him and catching his quizzical look. They have grown used to waking together, to reaching for one another in the night, embracing even as they sleep. He pulls her close, stroking his hand over her shoulder blades and down to the small of her back. This is new for her, but it is new for him too – accustomed as he has been to sneaking out of his sister’s bed as soon as the shameful deed is done. There’s no shame with Brienne, only joy. She is shy with him still, but sometimes allows him to take her hand at dinner and trace circles on it (only he knows that they are hearts and lions and suns and moons and sapphires). Once, after they had sparred in the training grounds, he had kissed her _right out there in the open_ and she had blushed and said “Jaime!” but for a moment her lips had clung to his. 

Brienne goes to get up but he wraps his arms around her more tightly, loath to let go. She pushes gently at his chest.  
“I need to get dressed.”  
“Not yet,” he rumbles into her neck. “Just a few minutes longer. It’s our anniversary.”  
She huffs in exasperation. “It has been our anniversary every day for the past week, Jaime” she reminds him, with a roll of her eyes.  
“But today is the _next_ anniversary of that week of anniversaries,” he tells her seriously, but with a smile dancing in his eyes. 

And if it doesn’t quite make sense, well it doesn’t take more than a fairly average Lannister to know that sometimes it is the sentiment that counts. 

She relaxes into his arms. “Well, maybe a little longer then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! It's been 15 years since I have been inspired to write anything (coughBuffycough) and your comments, bookmarks, kudos, and subscriptions are amazing. I have another longer WIP that I want to get beaten into some sort of shape before I start to post it - a post 8x06 piece where I present my application for membership of the Jaime Lannister is Alive Clown Club - as well as some more fluffy moments in their month at Winterfell.
> 
> I am still gutted by what Dumb & Dumber did to Jaime and Brienne - of all the mistakes they made with Season 8 (and there were many), screwing over Jaime's character arc was both the stupidest and the most heartbreaking. I am finding solace in the world of fanfic and in hopes that GRRM will stick to his narrative roots.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I think there will be 3 chapters to this, at least as outlined now. I will probably update every 2 days. Please do comment to let me know what you think - I don't have a beta, and I am working on character voice especially. Part of a series but doesn't need to be read with the rest of the series.


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